


I'm Fine

by WinterEvenings



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I make up some stuff, Near Death Experiences, Whump, sorry Cloud
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:55:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25031287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterEvenings/pseuds/WinterEvenings
Summary: “Cloud!”His eyes snap open, but it doesn’t do much good. All he can see is darkness anyway.They were trapped. It was his fault.It was all his fault.
Relationships: Cloud Strife & Barret Wallace, Cloud Strife & Everyone, Tifa Lockhart & Barret Wallace, Tifa Lockhart & Cloud Strife, Tifa Lockhart/Cloud Strife
Comments: 27
Kudos: 227





	I'm Fine

**Author's Note:**

> Wherein I've become a FF7 fan because of the Remake, fallen in love with the Cloti ship, once read a sad Peter Parker fic about him being trapped beneath a collapsed building, done a tiny amount of research on Cloud's backstory (Crisis Core cutscenes, life history videos, etc. on Youtube), realized that my brother owned a copy of AC and watched that, and tried to write the fanfiction you see before you - even though I've never written a fanfiction in my entire life. Hopefully it doesn't suck ass. Thank you.

In hindsight, Cloud should’ve known something was up.

But in the heat of the moment, with adrenaline pumping through his veins and half of his attention dedicated to protecting the AVALANCHE trio, all he could think was _danger, danger, danger_.

And now that he has a moment to breathe, albeit painfully, he feels stupid. Really stupid. Careless, even. How could so many red flags pass him by? He’s supposed to be an ex-SOLDIER. A _First-Class_ ex-SOLDIER at that.

They depended on him. And he failed them.

_Failure_.

Spiky black hair and mako-blue eyes flash behind his eyelids as his head splits in two, and he’s momentarily surprised that he doesn’t see Sephiroth instead. But as quickly as the vision came, it’s gone again. And he can’t recall what he’d just witnessed. All that’s left behind is more guilt; guilt for somebody he can’t even _remember_.

This person’s name is on the tip of his tongue, so close and yet so far. Sometimes he thinks he can remember a voice, but it’s like he’s listening underwater. The only thing that proves this person even existed is the constant feeling of shame and inadequacy and guilt in his chest. He let this person down.

And now he’s let more people down.

_Failure_.

Sephiroth’s words echo in his ears like salt on the wound.

_“You are too weak to save anyone…Not even yourself.”_

And boy, does he know it. How could he delude himself into playing the hero? He’s no hero. He’s just a failure of a man – a _boy_ , really. Has he actually changed in the last five years? Is that why Tifa had looked so confused when he said as much? Could she tell?

He supposes he was destined to fail in life. Ever since he was a little boy in Nibelheim, he’s been weak. A trouble magnet. The kid who never fit in.

But who was he now? An _ex_ -SOLDIER. A trouble magnet by choice. The mercenary that will never fit in; not with AVALANCHE or Tifa, and certainly not with the people in the Sector 7 Slums.

He really _hasn’t_ changed.

 _Failure_.

He thinks of Marle and her immediate dislike of him. How he tried not to feel disappointed when, no matter what he’d say or do, she’d always greet him with a scowl. Somehow, he felt like he was disappointing his mother.

Then, he thinks of Marlene and how scared she was when he walked into the bar that day. And of all the people on the train and in the slums whispering about his sword and how scary he looked.

And how Barret’s face always soured at the sight of him, like he was some filthy sewer rat scampering by. Would he win his favor, or that of Jessie, Biggs or Wedge?

But most importantly, and most despairingly, he could recall the look of fear in Tifa’s eyes when he’d suggested killing Johnny. What had seemed so logical to him in that instant, so natural, struck such fear in Tifa that he swears she’ll never look at him quite the same again. He wonders if he’s permanently ruined all chance of redemption in her eyes.

Yeah, Tifa hurt the most.

_“Cloud, you’re scaring me.”_

Murderer. Cold-hearted. SOLDIER. Asshole.

 _Failure_.

“Cloud!”

His eyes snap open, but it doesn’t do much good. All he can see is darkness anyway.

They were trapped. It was his fault.

It was all his fault.

* * *

The mission was going smoothly. Too smoothly.

Cloud briefly tried to recall when the last time they’d run into a guard was and tried not to think about the implications of that for too long, but _it had to have been what, ten, fifteen minutes ago?_ – when Wedge tripped onto him, sending him stumbling to the left.

“Watch it!” He barked out in a low whisper, shoving Wedge’s weight off of him.

A sheepish smile graced the man’s lips, and he swiftly offered a cheeky: “Sorry!” in compensation.

Cloud huffed, peeking around the corner again. Right, the coast was clear – which is what had been worrying him before Wedge’s clumsiness distracted him.

“I think they might be on to us,” he announced to the rest of the group, his voice as monotone and disinterested as ever, but inside he was shaking with nerves.

When had it become so easy for him to mask his emotions? Really…when? He could recall being somewhat of an open book when he was younger, though still relatively reserved. Now, he had four opaque walls around him built out of cold, hard steel.

That thought was rapidly disposed of, whether for lack of interest or to keep his head. And it’s a good thing he "doesn’t" dwell on the things he can or can’t remember doing these days because like most internally directed questions regarding his past, he won’t be able to find a clear answer. And no, that did not make him sad or anxious. He was devoid of emotions, stone-faced and stone-hearted – just like Barret said.

But…

There was something missing; something big.

He could feel it.

Something about…honor?

“Oh, ease up, blondie. Barret can be quiet when he needs to,” Jessie teases, causing Biggs to snicker.

“Cut it out!” Barret grumbles, but there is no bite to his words. Not like when he spoke to ‘the merc.’ If anything, Cloud swore he could detect an amused lilt.

Other than the mysterious lack of guards, he hasn’t been noticing any sensors or weird, out of place sounds. Yet that relatively normal silence worries him a lot more than, say, a cacophonous ruckus would. Silence is foreboding. Eerie. Ominous. He’d choose the opposite extreme any other day, if he the power to. And Cloud should’ve just listened to his gut, like he usually does. It was screaming at him to _turn around!! Danger!!_

Instead, Cloud suspends his worries.

It’s a mistake.

For the next few minutes, everything seems fine and Cloud almost decides to drop his nervousness for good. That maybe, he’s just hyperaware of everything right now, and is overthinking the smallest of things. It’s the weekend. Maybe there’s not as many guards, he reasons.

But the next moment, they’re completely surrounded by sweepers, guard dogs, helitroopers and everything else, it seems.

They are very, very outnumbered. Especially considering that Jessie, Biggs and Wedge are not well combat trained to handle this many enemies and will definitely be deadweight for Tifa, Barret and himself. Maybe the three would be able to take them on if the AVALANCHE trio wasn’t there, but they might as well finalize their wills now.

 _Fuck_ , Cloud thinks. _We’re so fucked_.

The only viable option left is to flee, and the only place they could (probably) flee is the abandoned construction site to the right.

If Cloud and Barret just drew the fire away from that hole in the fence for a minute or two, then Tifa could safely lead the trio away and maybe, _just maybe_ , Cloud wouldn’t fail at his job. 

Without wasting another second, Cloud decides that this is their best chance and springs into action.

“Barret, help me draw their fire. Tifa, take everyone and get out of here!” He points in the direction of the fence and luckily, Tifa seems to understand.

Nobody hesitates, thankfully, so Barret and he are able to focus on being the decoys.

He targets the guard dogs first while Barret focuses on gunning the helitroopers out of the air. They both coincidentally decide to ignore taking down the sweepers for the moment, opting to simply dodge out of the way of their powerful fire spells and bullets, in order to take out the sneakiest enemies first.

Cloud dispatches two of the dogs with a couple well-timed thrusts and rolls to avoid an aerial attack from a helitrooper, but their forces continue to multiply. With every dog taken down, there’s two more released on them. Regular infantrymen begin joining the fray, preferring to stay long-range with their guns raised and firing.

There’s just too many of them.

Cloud realizes this a second too late when Barret grunts in pain as a bullet sears through his thigh and he falls to one knee. He dashes in front of the gunman and throws up his sword to block a barrage of bullets just in time, one of them whizzing past his ear.

“Time to move,” he orders, pulling Barret to his feet, and hoo boy, the man’s gotta weigh at least two tons. The leader stumble-jogs behind the cover of some large Shinra containers momentarily, while Cloud continues to lure the gunfire and spells and bombs his way. When an opening allows him to, the leader barrels through the hole in the fence after the rest of his team.

Cloud’s plan is working, and then it’s not.

By now, the enemy’s caught on to him. At least three sweepers and five guard dogs rush him all at the same time attempting to take him out, and he barely manages to dodge out of the way of a triad of snapping jaws - each displaying a lovely array of razor-sharp teeth - when a bullet grazes the fabric of his shoulder.

Too close for comfort.

 _Way_ too close. It’s a warning sign if he’s ever seen one.

Time for phase two: get the hell out of here!

Knowing he can’t and shan’t dillydally any longer, he heads for the fence and dives through the opening. He can see the rest of the AVALANCHE cell disappear inside a half-finished building up ahead and he rushes into the structure after them.

It’s mainly made of concrete, but the roof is gone and there’s a suspicious lack of support pillars. _The hell? Who planned this construction job?_

Looking down, he can see what looks like a finished basement below. Above which, the rest of his crew runs across a series of suspended, temporarily built bridges that connect bits of construction work to others. It’s all very incohesive and half-assed, from what Cloud knows about construction, which is very little – so that’s saying something.

Shinra must not dedicate the majority of its funding toward Urban Development.

He hears the fence being blown away behind him, so he figures that Shinra forces are, unfortunately, hot on their heels.

What he doesn’t expect is another bomb. Nor a big one.

Beep, beep, _beepbeepbeep_ -

“Take cover!” He warns, but it’s too late (and kind of useless because there’s nowhere _to_ take cover) and not a second later a _bang_ erupts, shaking the unstable foundation.

 _Damn it_.

And Cloud’s stomach sinks at the crackling sounds of shoddy craftsmanship. Concrete splits in half, metal shrieks under stress. The unfinished floor gives way, and he vaguely registers Tifa screaming before he falls and blacks out.

* * *

“Tifa?” He calls out into the void, now awake and partly in shock. He’s surprised at how level his voice is, given his current…predicament.

“Cloud! Thank Gaia… Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine,” he responds, but it’s a lie. A blatant lie. There’s no need to worry her or anybody else with his condition right now.

Thinking of, “How’s everyone?” He asks, trying to redirect her attention to its rightful place (i.e. finding a way out and tending to others who might be wounded).

“I’m good!” Biggs calls out, Jessie and Wedge humming in agreement, and Cloud can’t sense dishonesty in their tones. His guilt-ridden heart feels a little lighter. He hasn’t failed yet.

Cloud wishes he didn’t have to lie.

He coughs weakly and quietly, trying to hide his thrumming pain, tasting blood on his tongue. It coats the back of his throat. The experience is like drinking the unfiltered slum water, all irony and putrid – burning through his nose.

More blood pools to his left side, warm and thick.

His right leg is pinned beneath some rubble, he thinks, since he can’t seem to tug it free when he tries, and pain radiates from that ankle in waves. It’s broken for sure, but the rest of his leg seems fine – just uncomfortably squished.

There’s a familiar pinching pain whenever he inhales, suggesting that he might’ve fractured a rib again, or bruised it at the very least. After all, some concrete fell on his chest after he landed. _That_ he remembers happening.

But these are all minor injuries compared to the twin holes in his abdomen and left shoulder.

He slides his right hand over his thigh and up his torso until it thumps against a cool, ridged steel rod jutting through his abdomen to the left of his navel – matching the thinner one piercing his left shoulder.

Rebar.

He’s been impaled by rebar.

He shifts his chest.

It takes all his willpower not to scream when the adrenaline and shock wear off, his mind now free from worrying about the others and able to focus on himself. Like a reverse-lidocaine injection, his nerves fire off in a frenzy. Searing, white-hot pain replaces the once blissful numbness he felt and now yearns to have back. It’s sheer agony, and his other injuries are like background noise to the loud band that’s playing fire on his torso right now.

He tries to take shallow breaths to minimize his chest movement because, _Gaia,_ each deep breath scrapes his flesh against the notches of the rebar and _it’s so fucking painful_ , but he also doesn’t want to accidentally start hyperventilating either. There’s a balance here, and he needs to find it.

He can’t stop a small whimper from escaping, though, and he prays that nobody hears him.

He’ll only be a burden.

_Just let them escape and tell them you’ll meet up with them later, if they ask. Rendezvous at Seventh Heaven, or something. Don’t let them worry about you,_

_Failure._

There’s more blood in his throat. He gurgles it and spits it out, but it doesn’t go farther than his chin.

His breaths are coming out shakier now and he’s so focused on not screaming – _don’t let them know_ – that he nearly misses a question directed his way.

“-cure, Cloud?”

_Come again?_

“I asked whether or not you had cure equipped, Cloud. We ran out of potions in the warehouse.”

_For who?_

“For Barret. He got shot, remember?”

 _Right_ , Cloud thinks.

_Barret needs it more than I do._

Everyone here depends on Barret; he’s their leader. And Cloud hates to admit it, but he’s a good leader too. Able to inspire others to act bravely for the cause. The gunman brings the red-hot fire to their little eco-group. Definitely can’t have him bleeding out and dying, especially when there’s a cute little girl waiting for him back home.

There’s no one waiting for Cloud.

 _That’s not true_ , a voice in the back of his mind argues and he swears it sounds a lot like Tifa talking, but he’s sort of delirious with pain right now, so…probably not.

Cloud almost laughs at his own hypocrisy, or rather, lapse in judgement. He knows Barret wouldn’t want him to use the spell on himself with Cloud in his pitiful, weakened state, which is _exactly_ why he can’t let them find out.

“I’ve got it,” he answers because Barret _deserves_ it.

He’s too far gone now, anyway. There’s so much blood. _Too much blood_ , his mind supplies.

Suddenly, his chest seizes uncomfortably, and it feels like he might throw up a blood clot, but he forces himself not to because that would be _too_ _loud_.

Instead and in vain, he coughs wetly again, wincing as blood dribbles out of the corner of his mouth, joining the blood on his chin. He nearly curses when the sound is too audible and silences the light conversation happening a few meters away, but the words die on his lips in light of another bloody cough-spasm.

Damn, he’s drawn an audience.

He feels queasy again.

“Cloud…are you sure you’re all right?” There’s an edge to Tifa’s voice and he knows she’s caught onto him. He’ll have to work quickly.

“I’m f-fine,” he reiterates, but his voice isn’t steady anymore. It’s a dead giveaway.

_At least I got to see Tifa again._

His brain is starting to feel a little fuzzy and Cloud welcomes how it numbs the pain a tad. But he also recognizes that that means he’s dying, and so he’s got to cast the spell now before he can’t anymore.

Luckily, it’s not too high a level of cure, so it doesn’t require too much life force to work – which is exactly what he doesn’t have.

He briefly hopes that the bullet passed all the way through Barret’s leg as he activates the materia. There’s a flash of green light and he feels a sensation that’s like getting the wind knocked out of him, before everything goes black again.

* * *

The wound on Barret’s thigh seals, but the ache is still uncomfortably present. At any other time, he might’ve clapped out a sarcastic remark about how shitty that cure spell was, but right now, it only petrifies him. Cloud has never been bad at casting, from what he’s witnessed. 

His heart beats wildly in panic, and his mind briefly searches for the moment when he started caring about the blond mercenary. When exactly had the asshole wormed his way into his heart alongside the likes of Marlene and Tifa and AVALANCHE?

“Cloud!” Tifa calls out, feeling the same panic grip her like a vice.

The air is undeniably thick with apprehension as Tifa, Barret and the rest of AVALANCHE await a response from the other side of the rubble. Never in his life had Barret been so desperate to be insulted because that would mean that Cloud was still, in fact, alive.

But all they received was silence.

Tifa begins a mantra of no-no-no’s, and Jessie and Wedge both shuffle nervously and aimlessly behind him in a mixture of confusion and worry. Biggs is silent, likely overthinking and understandably so. But Barret isn’t ready to give up just yet.

“Biggs, flashlight over here!”

Responding like a cadet would to a commanding officer’s authoritative tone, Biggs turns about face, pivoting on his heels and whipping the flashlight around with him. The process de-illuminates the group’s earlier focus, a possible escape route from under the building, and the light settles instead on the rubble separating them from Cloud. Wordlessly, the primary objective for AVALANCHE’s mission changes from ‘getting out’ to ‘saving Cloud Strife’s life.’

“I swear to the planet, if that motherfucker’s just conked out and he’s got me all worked up over nothing, I’mma kill ‘em.”

Barret mutters his empty threat under his breath, simultaneously searching for somewhere to navigate through the mess of crumbled concrete, dirt and metal chunks in order to access Cloud.

He wouldn’t actually kill Cloud – in fact, he might just hug him if that turns out to be the case, but it’s easier to pretend like everything’s fine and normal. He can’t break down now. The gunman hates to admit it, but he’s scared. Actually, scratch that, he’s terrified.

Cloud was…well, Cloud was _Cloud_. Despite his cold demeanor, he had a big heart. Barret had bore witness to the merc’s supposedly ‘discrete’ acts of kindness. Like how Marlene had mysteriously received a new paint set when she ran out, or how Wedge’s leaky roof magically fixed itself. Little things like this had subconsciously cemented Cloud’s spot in his heart and life, and he’ll be damned if anything were to happen to the kid. ~~His kid~~.

When he spots something remotely promising that doesn’t look like it’ll completely disrupt the precariously balanced support system of the toppled building, he doesn’t bother trying to hide his panic anymore. He thinks of Dyne and Myrna and how he failed them both, and the thought of Cloud joining the list of fallen in his mind makes him work quicker and with more urgency.

Cloud, to Barret’s dismay, reminds him of a younger brother or maybe even a snarky son, but Barret will never admit to that. At least, he’d thought he’d never have to admit to it. It might be too late, now. And that’s sure as hell a sobering realization. As well as the realization that Cloud may, in fact, be lying there dea-

 _No_ , he thinks. _Cloud is fine_.

He heaves and most of the rubble tumbles away to leave a barely wide enough opening to the blonde, and thankfully the building doesn’t collapse further. It only groans. _Okay, act fast._

He squeezes himself through, Biggs right behind him with the flashlight and everybody else behind him.

He feels breathless when the light beam finally hovers over Cloud’s body.

His very limp, very bloody body.

The hairs on the back of Barret’s neck and arms prick upwards, and he shudders out a disbelieving breath. All his horrible, horrible suspicions were true.

Wedge retches beside him, but everyone else is trapped silently staring at Cloud in a unified shock.

It truly is a gruesome sight.

His right leg is hidden underneath some rubble, probably broken, but his left leg is miraculously spared as far as the eye could see.

The real problem is his upper half. Two rebar rods pierce both his abdomen and his left shoulder, just beneath his collarbone – staking him to the ground. The rods bend dangerously under the weight of a concrete slab held up above him tent-like, on the verge of snapping. Blood pools around his lithe figure, the deep red a stark contrast to his pale skin that looks paler and grayer than usual. Barret hopes it’s just the lighting.

Blood also paints his lips and chin, and there’s some fine scrapes along his arms and cheek.

He’s so still.

His eyes are closed, and his lips parted, just like he’s sleeping. His expression is just like Marlene's when she sleeps.

Just like Marlene.

 _My son_.

He looks so peaceful. So small.

So…

So dead–

_-Oh, Gaia, he’s dead._

Tifa drops to his side and clutches at his wrist, checking for a heartbeat. There’s a deafening pause as everyone waits for the inevitable. He can’t be alive, surely, he can’t be alive-

“He’s alive!” Tifa breathes out, surprise and relief latent on her voice.

Barret doesn’t ask her to repeat herself. Those words were all he needed to hear to surge his body into motion and out from his stupor. If the damn kid was still alive, that means he barely has any time left and so they needed to move fast.

Really fast.

He reaches down for the abandoned buster sword at Cloud’s side and lifts it with ease. They should leave the rebar in, so he doesn’t bleed out as fast – well, bleed out faster than he already was. He warily eyes the growing blood puddle at the blonde’s side that’s soaking Tifa’s stockings through and through.

“Stand back.” He orders and Tifa steals another glance at Cloud’s peaceful, unconscious face before shuffling back.

“Biggs, Wedge, hold this up,” he gestures to the slab of concrete that hovers over Cloud, supported by the long pieces of rebar impaling him.

Wedge can’t look directly at Cloud and neither can Biggs, so they awkwardly keep their eyes fixed on the concrete as they move to anticipate its weight. Barret’s plan is so obvious to them, it goes without saying.

Jessie is, as Barret takes a moment to observe her, in complete shock still. Her ‘giant crush’ on Cloud has been overly dramatized from the start (she _was_ an actress before an eco-terrorist, after all), but even if she tries to say that she’s just messing around, it’s obvious to everyone who really knows her that she cares about the blonde deeply. And it’s more evident than ever in the way that she’s just standing there, unmoving with an unblinking gaze locked on Cloud’s form.

Tifa is on another level with Cloud though, this Barret has come to realize. He knows of the past they share, but not the details. So, her similarly hopeless expression rocks him even more than Jessie’s does. He’s never seen her look so…defeated. She must’ve already theorized how low Cloud’s chances of surviving are, even _if_ she was the one to announce that his heart was still beating.

Barely beating. _Barely alive_ , he reminds himself. _Is he even breathing?_

Barret feels more determined than ever to save Cloud’s life. For Tifa, Jessie, Biggs, and Wedge.

For himself.

For Marlene, in a way.

“Hang in there, Cloud.” He instructs the dying figure below him, as if his will and encouragement alone can prolong the blonde’s death date.

He carefully swings the buster sword, aiming as low as he dares, and it slices through the rebar embedded in his shoulder. A chorus of strained grunts fall past Biggs and Wedge’s lips, and Barret hurriedly passes the sword through the second rebar pole as well before they can lose the strength to hold up the slab.

Tifa lunges forward to drag Cloud out from under the flattening zone, his right leg thankfully tugging free. The endpoints of the rebar rods poking through Cloud’s back scrape against the floor in a disheartening, high-pitched wail. It reminds Barret that they aren’t finished yet; they’ve merely moved from one possible death bed onto the next.

No time to rest.

Biggs and Wedge let the slab fall with a loud thump and a whoosh of air.

Barret immediately leans down to scoop Cloud into his arms bridal style, dropping the buster sword by his feet, and tries to ignore how light the kid is, even while limp, and how it makes his heart ache even more. How old was Cloud anyway, because he seems like a teenager in Barret’s arms right now.

He shifts Cloud’s body around to get a better hold on him, guiding the blonde’s head to roll against his chest so his neck doesn’t strain. The leader clutches him tightly, but not too tight as to not disturb his wounds further, and grimaces at the sticky feeling of blood soaking through his shirt.

He’s never been a praying man, but he feels like starting now.

* * *

“Wait, Barret! Let me check his breathing!” Tifa shouts after they’ve all managed to leave the collapsed building without further injury.

He huffs, not wanting to waste anymore precious time in between here and the healer’s, but he realizes that it’s for the best. They needed to confirm that Cloud was okay and not… _No, he’s not dead_. The kid was way too stubborn to let death take him that easily. This soon. At least, Barret hopes not or Tifa will unravel. Hell, he’ll unravel.

Tifa steps in front of him, gingerly cupping Cloud’s cheek as she leans her ear close to his nose.

It’s the third pregnant pause of the night, all having related to Cloud’s wellbeing.

There’s a few more beats of anxious silence than last time, and something is wrong – Barret can sense it.

Then Tifa confirms it, pulling back with a panicked expression and she’s sticking her finger underneath his nose and using her other hand to feel for a pulse on his wrist.

“He’s not breathing! And his heart isn’t – I can’t - Barret, I can’t feel a pulse anymore!”

And now she’s staring directly into his soul with the most intense pleading look he’s ever been on the receiving end of, tears in her eyes. Expecting him to do something, anything. Like he always does.

“Barret!”

Said man looks down at the limp - _dead_ boy in his arms, looking so so small and vulnerable. _He’s just asleep, he’s just…_ He can’t even begin to fathom that Cloud Strife – _Cloud fucking Strife_ is dead in his arms.

He freezes. Absolutely freezes.

For the first time in a decade, Barret is clueless on what to do.

It’s Biggs who steps up. He’s always been quick on his feet, ready to switch into Plan- _whatever_ in the blink of an eye. Always been the one to think, think, and overthink things until he’s satisfyingly prepared for _every_ possible way a mission could go wrong. And despite everyone always telling him to just _chill out_ , and _take it easy_ , he never listens – always coming up with new outcomes and situations that needed to be accounted for.

This mission was no different. It was a simple supply run, with a low enough risk that any normal person might expect to get a few bruises or scratches, but _nothing more._ So, maybe they’d pack a few vials of potions or a low-level cure materia, but _nothing more_ – just as they had. After all, they needed to save room for the supplies they’d pick up. As much room as possible. And there shouldn’t be too many mechs stored at a supply facility, right?

But of course, Biggs had suspected the worst.

And…they all couldn’t be more thankful for that hyper-imaginative brain of his. His next words were like soup and blankets during a cold, winter night.

“I’ve got a phoenix down!” He exclaims, pulling a tuft out of his waist pack.

Tifa, Wedge, Jessie and Barret all stare at the feather in bewilderment because it’s too good to be true.

_Where did… How did…_

“Cloud gave it to me,” Biggs explains, and it makes sense because there’s no way they could’ve afforded it with how much money they dedicated to their last mission. 

There’s a second chance for Cloud -from his past self no less - and it comes in the form of a magical bird feather.

Before anyone else can fully wrap their heads around this revelation, Biggs launches forward and shoves the feather into Cloud’s chest.

It ignites into a flurry of red flames that circle around his body once, as if inspecting him, before diving down and phasing through Cloud’s chest. The area where his heart rests in his ribcage glows red through the material of his sleeveless turtleneck.

And then Cloud’s gasping for air, though his eyes refuse to open, and Barret takes off in a full sprint.

* * *

_“…awake, be sure…food in him…pills…throwing up.”_

_“Yeah…care of him.”_

_“I’m glad…good hands...call me…wakes up…infection…”_

_“Will do…Spike…pull through.”_

_Where…where am I?_

He registers bits and pieces of phrases spoken in hushed voices all around him and tries clinging onto them, hoping to anchor his mind down and will himself back to full consciousness.

But, despite his best efforts, he feels them slipping further and further away as he drifts back into a dreamless sleep. Like sand through his fingers.

When he comes to next, he actually manages to pry open his eyes before he goes under again, regaining some control over his mind. Still, he feels very drugged – the effects of whatever medication he’s on making his brain feel mushy and malleable. Like he’s floating.

An image of a stuffy mako tank and the sensation of drowning startles him into awareness, but like the memory of the forgotten man, it’s gone as quickly as it came. Back to being tucked away in a corner of his brain. But, the drugs he’s on can’t flush away the feeling of incompetence that grips him and lingers in the memory’s wake. Were these even memories? He couldn’t tell.

He briefly wonders if he’s dead, his body feels so far away right now. Does he even have a body? Wow, these drugs are killer.

And he _feels_ like he’s forgetting something. Actually, no, he _knows_ he’s forgetting something because he has no idea how he came to fall asleep in what he presumes to be his room but doesn’t _feel_ like his room. Which is weird in itself. Regardless, why, of all places, is he here? Because despite not remembering exactly where he was before, he’s certain it wasn’t here, wherever ‘here’ is. Ugh, he’s so confused.

Well, he’ll find out eventually. 

Luckily for him, the lights in his room – _or is it my room?_ – are off, so he doesn’t feel like his eyeballs are about to fry when he pries his eyelids open.

As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he realizes that his suspicions were right and he’s not in his apartment. In fact, he’s somewhere he doesn’t recognize at all. Cloud isn’t sure whether to panic or not, feeling fuzzier by the second.

His head lulls to the side, eyes seeking out the lone sliver of light that shines through an almost-shut door. There are voices outside, if he’s hearing correctly, but he isn’t so quick to trust himself in his current state. There could be nobody. He could be hearing things. He’s done that before. More times than he’d like to admit.

Scanning the bedroom, he notes that it isn’t exactly large. Actually, it seems pretty small and stuffy now that Cloud’s slowly gaining his wits about him, and his warped depth perception is righting itself. He makes a mental note to not move his head so fast next time.

The more he observes, and the more his brain starts functioning like a brain and not like a pile of goo, the less it looks like a proper bedroom at all. It’s more of a hidden back room, or something. No windows or personal belongings to mark that somebody lives here. Only a few boxes piled up in the corner opposite him, the twin bed he’s lying on, and the tiny nightstand beside him occupy the space.

Well, he’s either dead, alive and rescued by someone during something he doesn’t remember happening, or alive and kidnapped.

These are the three most likely scenarios that Cloud can conceive because a) he’s drugged-into-oblivion and b) shoved into a suspiciously small room. The combination doesn’t exactly sit well with him, leading him to assume that he’s probably in danger. And he’s also a pessimist by nature, unlike Tifa.

His imagination suddenly runs wild and a vision of her kidnapped just like him but bloody and scared and beaten cuts through his brain-fog, making his heart clench, his lingering feelings of incompetence and guilt returning. But he tries to be reasonable and convince himself that she’s alright, _she’s_ _alright_ , repeating it in his head until the image slowly, but surely, fades away.

 _Focus, Cloud_. He instructs himself.

He can’t do anything about the first option, but the third option is more pressing then the second, so he resolves to deal with it first. He logicizes that if he’s being trusted by his unknown captors to be left entirely alone, it’s probably not a sign of generosity or trust.

So, he’s got to be restrained somehow and though he’d usually be able to test that theory out with a simple tug, the second he goes to move his arms, his biceps melt like jelly.

 _Right_ , he’s drugged.

Okay then, maybe he can try sitting up or something instead.

Remembering how nauseous and disoriented he felt when he turned his head too quickly earlier prevents him from doing it twice. Rather, he slowly rolls his head to the left until he’s staring straight up at the ceiling again, waiting for a beat until he’s sure that his careful movements paid off. A second goes by and no nausea.

Perfect. Now, all he has to do is lift his head a little and –

As soon as he engages his core muscles, an agonized yelp escapes him and he regrets moving at all – having not expected the tender, raw pain to erupt from his abdomen and pulse up through his chest in seismic waves. His head drops back to the pillow with a soft thump and his eyebrows pinch together, eyes closing, teeth finding the corner of his lip as he rides out the worst of the aftershocks. It’s like getting hit with a Thundaga spell but somehow, so much worse.

 _Okay, not getting up. Screw that. Not checking. Uh-uh_.

So what, if he’s restrained?

It’s whatever if he’s kidnapped, really.

It’s _fine_.

So, this is why his captors left him alone, he realizes with a cold chill running down his spine: he’s injured and thus, useless. And drugged, of course, but apparently not drugged _enough_ or not with the right stuff, perhaps - the pain he’s experiencing attesting to that. Maybe he’s not supposed to be awake yet? Who knows?

But then…

Then, everything comes back at once. The mission, the bomb, a scream, the building collapsing, being skewered like a shish kabob, pain, pain, pain, casting cure on Barret and then…nothing. Until now.

The pain, it’s unbearable. And the blood; it’s all over him, all over the ground. _Don’t let them know._

Oh Gaia. He’s not dead, h-he’s captured by Shinra! And everyone else is dead – _or captured like me._

_I failed them._

Green, all he sees, hears, feels is green. Surrounding him, choking him, subduing him.

The door to his room slams against the adjacent wall with a _crash_ as it’s retched open, bouncing back and hitting someone with an _oof_.

That might’ve drawn a low snicker out of Cloud, but it doesn’t. Not now. Not when he registers it happening like he’s a thousand feet away, not a couple feet. The room around him feels so distant, so vast, and yet so claustrophobic.

Instead, his eyes widen in fear, suddenly feeling _unbelievably_ overwhelmed. There’s too much… everything; a full 180 from the nothingness a minute before. He’s dizzy with pain and drugs and panic, and his throat feels like it might cave in on itself, and _ohmygaiaI’mnotbreathingIcan’tbreathe-_

His vision is short-circuiting and all he can see is that endless mako green and splotches of vibrant red when his abdomen stings.

He only registers that he’s been unknowingly clawing at the bandages on his stomach with weak fingers, _oh there’s bandages_ , when someone rips his hand away. Cloud just about has the strength of a newborn kitten right now, so it doesn’t take much effort. 

Warm hands cup his face and his ears pick up on a soothing, familiar voice, cutting through the absolute hopelessness he feels pressing down like a stone on his chest. 

It’s a warm voice. Warm and gentle, like a hug.

“…eath…Jus…eathe for…okay?...”

The water slowly drains from his ears, inviting the voice in. 

“…follow…listen to me…to breathe…”

His mind picks apart what his ears are receiving, struggling to make sense of it all until a sentence finally breaks through to his hyperactive brain.

“Cloud, I need you to breathe nice and slow for me.”

He listens _, slowdownslowdownslowdown_ running through his head ironically fast. But it works to some degree, after what feels like a small eternity of desperately gasping, gulping for air – as if he’s about to run out forever.

As if he’s drowning.

 _Green_.

But his eyes start to see again, a white light encroaching on the edges of his vision, and his breathing gradually begins to feel more manageable. Tamable.

He’s trying his best to mimic the person next to him like they instruct, his hand resting over their chest to encourage him to follow along. To feel them breathing and match their speed. He doesn’t remember his hand being moved, though.

_When did that happen?_

Their breaths are dramatic and slow, but it’s helping. A lot. And now he’s looking into beautiful, red eyes. Eyes that could only belong to-

“Tifa?” He croaks out and he’s almost back to his senses again, but not quite.

At least he’s not thinking in two-word phrases or shapes and colors anymore.

She nods, reaching for the hand that had dropped from her chest upon coming out of the panic attack, and intertwining their fingers. “I’m here.”

Her hand is warm and soft in his, and he relishes the feeling. Cherishes it.

Cherishes her.

She’s his rock, through and through.

Without her…

Without her, he’d be nothing. He'd still be out on the street and...

It looks like there’s tears on her cheeks and he wants nothing more than to reach up and wipe them away. She’s an angel, she doesn’t deserve to cry. Especially not over him.

But adrenaline fades fast and he feels just as weak as he did earlier, if not more so, so lifting his hand is a no-can-do.

In fact, he’s downright exhausted now that his high is over – way too tired to feel embarrassed about what just transpired, nor worry about how this changes things between him and everyone. And it definitely does, there’s no escaping it. They’re all, unfortunately for him, in the room too or leaning in, he realizes.

Alas, his dramatic, pendulum-like mood swings from tired to frantic to tired again are having their effect on him.

“S’eepy…” He admits quietly, just barely muttering the words as his eyes find Tifa’s.

She chuckles at his slurred pronunciation, running a hand through his hair and he can’t help but let his eyelids fall shut.

“Okay…” Is all she says.

She stays until he falls asleep.

…

At least, when he wakes up this time, he’s not so heavily sedated.

His mind is very clear. Unlike before, where it was just about as clear as mud. 

But that also means that the pain is actually, unfortunately, present without his provocation this time. At least he remembers everything now, so it doesn’t freak him out again. He won’t _let it_ freak him out again.

Oh, and now he has the willpower to overthink _that_ too. He doesn’t even want to call it what it was. The memory of ~~his pathetic mental breakdown~~ _it_ tastes sour on his tongue.

 _Failure_.

_“You are too weak to save anyone...”_

His head splits.

Not this again.

_“Not even yourself.”_

Not even himself.

Minutes pass by and he just lays there, thinking, hating, regretting.

He’s an ex-SOLDIER, dammit, and he’s got walls. Boundaries. He thought Barret said no more fuckups. And he’s definitely fucked his image up, and AVALANCHE’s wallet too – which only gifts him more guilt for his conscience. _Fuck_.

Surprisingly, as time passes and his thoughts chug along, he actually feels like he’s getting used to the ache in his stomach (and also now his ankle, chest and shoulder as well). It’s becoming more of a dull hum the longer he forces himself to tolerate the pain. But, _shit_ , he’s still feeling worse for wear. Though, it could’ve been worse. He could’ve been dead.

 _Would that have been –_ No. He stops himself right there.

- _ ~~so bad?~~ _

_- ~~better?~~_

The back of his mind wonders where these thoughts stem from. ~~~~

He needs to get back to thinking about feeling better. He needs to distract himself, unable to sit still alone with his mind for too long. He doesn’t trust his thoughts. No wonder he barely sleeps. Unless he’s drugged out and has a panic attack, apparently. Then he sleeps like a baby.

_I really haven’t grown. I’ve just regressed…_

**_Focus_ ** _._

He gets a bad idea.

Sure, it didn’t go so well the first time he’d tried sitting up, but he can anticipate the pain now because he remembers everything. And he’s not debating whether he’s been captured by Shinra or not. And he’s not delirious with drugs.

So, he’s got a better shot this time ‘round.

The receptors in his arms are, gratefully, connected to his brain this time and they move to brace him. His left shoulder feels like fire though, which makes sense because he was _impaled_ , so he leans more onto his right side and swings his right leg off the bed, followed by his left. His right ankle is broken, yeah, but it’s in a cast so it’s probably okay to walk on it. _Probably_. If he gets that far. He’s already half-way there, anyway, his body now in a weird L-shaped position. His hip pops from the combination of laying down in one position too long and then suddenly getting hyper-extended at an odd angle.

It’s a sign that he should finish what he started, maybe. He’s been immobile far too long for both his body and his mind to take, even if he was asleep for most of it.

He pushes up onto his elbow and rotates his wrist until his palm is flat against the mattress. From there, he shoves himself up into a sitting position, biting his cheek hard to redirect the attention his brain is giving his stomach and shoulder, both wounds hidden underneath bandages and gauze. But it doesn’t really help and now his cheek is sore too.

 _Whatever_.

He feels a little dizzy at the sudden change in elevation and takes a second to recalibrate. The blood rushes down from his brain into his toes, which start to feel a bit tingly. He wiggles them. They move, but his foot starts to feel tight in its cast, like the sensation of getting his blood pressure checked.

He cringes at the thought of the doctor’s office, unsure _why_.

“What the hell are you doing out of bed?!”

Cloud’s head whips up at Tifa’s scolding tone. He didn’t even see her walk in, so distracted was he, just staring at his feet. He’s losing his touch. He needs to find those walls again, fast, and become the cold-hearted mercenary he promised them all he was.

It’s easier than this. Whatever _this_ is about to become.

He haphazardly throws up the strongest walls he can manage and hopes they’ll do the job.

When he doesn’t respond, she sighs.

“You should be… The doctor said… You know what? I get it. Just let me help you to the living room. _Please_.”

He rushes to stand before she can reach him, in order to prove that he’s not entirely useless. It’s childish, he knows, but he doesn’t need to be babied. Doesn’t want to be babied. He’s ex-SOLDIER, dammit.

She steps to his right as he balances on one leg precariously. He misses her sad expression because he’s too busy avoiding her face right now. He can’t look at her directly. Yeah, his walls were up but they weren’t Tifa-proof.

Looping her arm under his armpit and behind his back, she rests her hand carefully on his left side, coaxing him to lean some of his weight onto her. He does, bless, his right arm draping over her shoulders. They do their best at a three-legged walk. Cloud guess that they’re probably staying in the secret hideout under Seventh Heaven, since Tifa's watching over him - although he's never been down here before, so he can't be sure. 

With only some stumbling, they make it to the couch, and she lowers him down. He leans back into the cushions and props his right leg up in front of him, and she catches him try to conceal a wince as his hand hovers reflexively over his abdomen. It makes her angry and bitter, but also sad. He’s always trying to hide everything, and although he was never able to fool her, there’s no way he can keep fooling the rest of them now. He’s got to have realized that already…right?

All of them, Jessie, Biggs, Wedge, Barret and herself witnessed Cloud’s break down, the sight rendering each of them speechless and concerned. They know for a fact that he has a heart now; know that he’s human under all that grouchiness and deflection. They finally see what Tifa’s seen this whole time, and there’s no going back from here. She won’t let it, for fear that it’ll only get worse than before and the fallout will be even more worrisome, and perhaps he’d…he’d... Well, she hopes that it’s not like half-a-step forward and ten steps back with him.

She holds her tongue, even if it kills her not to speak. She doesn’t want to overwhelm him, or worse. Could it get worse than what she saw last night? She ponders this while she prepares him something to eat. After all, the doctor said that they shouldn’t administer him any pain meds until he’s eaten, if they could help it, and he's definitely feeling pain. 

She decides to start with some soup from a can and a slice of toast because those are both easy things to eat. It’s also what Barret always gave her when she was sick, and it made her feel loads better. Being injured couldn’t be too different.

Except it was.

His injuries were _so_ much worse.

She thinks about how pale he was when they found him, unconscious and so, so bloody. How it stained his chin red, how the rebar disappeared into his stomach and shoulder. The dread settling in her gut as her brain caught up to her eyes and she realized that he was probably _dead_ –

The bubbling of the soup in the pot snaps her out of her trance and she hurries to pull a bowl out of the cupboard. The toast pops up right as she finishes pouring the soup, and she walks over to butter it.

Cloud’s staring into space when she returns to him, and he jumps at her presence before relaxing.

 _He’s never been jumpy_. Not a good sign.

She sets his food down on the coffee table in front of him and he thanks her, to which she says _no problem_. It’s there where she hesitates. Does she leave or…

“Is Barret’s leg okay?” He asks and it’s innocent enough, considerate even, but it rubs Tifa in all the wrong ways. That anger is back again.

And so is the image of his lifeless body, one that she’s grieving for even as he sits alive in front of her. She’ll, no doubt, have nightmares about it for a _long_ time. Just looking at him now, she can see the blood dribbling out of his mouth, at his side, staining the couch that deep red - 

“You idiot!” She spits, clenching her fists at her side. Cloud winces at her volume and she can’t remember the last time she truly lost her composure, but Cloud just does that to her. He creeps underneath her skin constantly, either getting on her last nerves or leaving her blushing like a love-sick teenager.

“You could’ve-” she chokes on the words, her anger leaving her in a flash as she’s reminded of his near-death, “We could’ve…We almost lost you, Cloud. _I almost lost you_.”

Her last words are so quiet, she doubts he’s heard her, but he looks away stubbornly when she tries to meet his gaze. His silence spurs her on again and now she can’t stop herself, can’t hold herself back until he knows _just how much_ he hurt her by not speaking up.

How much he’s hurting her now by refusing to even _look_ at her.

The remembrance of his selfishness is what manages to rekindle the flames of anger. _Gaia_ , she feels like a kid again. 

“Why did you lie? Why?! I could’ve cast that cure spell on Barret, dammit! Right _after_ I cured you!”

The tears are hot as they trickle down her face, her eyebrows drawn together in vexation. She’s seething with frustration, confusion and exasperation all at once. And it’s all Cloud’s fault. It’s _always_ been his fault and she wants to fault herself for it, but she _can’t_ because she _loves_ him.

Ever since that night in Nibelheim when he opened up to her – _her_ out of all people - charming her in ways she didn’t expect to like so much, and she pestered him for that stupid promise. Ever since then, and maybe even subconsciously before, he’s failed to leave her thoughts completely. And it’s because. She. Loves. Him.

“That was so stupid! So reckless! So selfish! So…so…” She scrubs at her cheeks furiously and before she can think better of it, because she’s kind of running on instincts alone here, she pinches his chin between her fingers and forces him to look at her.

“Never… _Never_ again, Cloud. Don’t you _ever_ pull some self-sacrificing bullshit like that _ever_ again.”

Cloud is speechless. For all his credit, she can’t blame him. She’s kind of surprising herself. She even swore. She never swears. But Cloud is all she has left of home - all she has left that she _loved_ about home, and she can't, won't give up on him. 

After the better half of a minute, his hand comes up to tenderly wrap around her wrist and she lets him guide her hand away from his chin - sensing that, should she not interrupt, he would say something. Something important. His thumb traces once over her skin, absentmindedly.

“But I…” He begins and his eyes drop to the floor, his grip slipping from hers as he finishes his confession. “I’m not…worth it.”

 _I can’t even remember the identity of the man who died for me. I can’t even really remember who I am,_ he thinks to himself.

His words both reaffirms what she had been suspecting at - that this whole situation wasn’t merely a case of overconfidence in his ex-SOLDIER status – and makes her feel like an asshole. It would’ve been so easy to believe that Cloud had merely overestimated his mako regenerative abilities, but Tifa knew better. Yet, still, she wasn’t expecting…that.

She had, selfishly – she realizes now, assumed that Cloud had done all this as some sort of way to make good on his promise to her. To protect her from suffering his loss firsthand or something along those lines. She figured it was either that, or some sort of SOLDIER mentality beaten into his head: to leave the man down behind. But, no. This was…deeper and more personal than she had first thought, or refused to have thought, and she had overlooked all the signs.

How…

How did she miss this?

Before she could even think to respond, the door busts open and Barret walks in.

“I ‘eard yelling. What’s the matter?” He asks in his booming voice. But there’s no need for Tifa to answer him as the gunman, himself, watches Cloud’s head swivel to face him, beach blonde hair swaying a bit.

Something somewhere deep in Barret’s soul cracks when he meets those vibrant sapphire-blue eyes across the room, that lone ring of mako green glowing; the concentration of mako in the mercenary’s body, no doubt, working diligently to heal him as quickly as possible.

The last time he ever looked into Cloud’s eyes was before the building fell. He honestly thought he’d never see them again.

Yet here they are, staring back at him.

It clicks in his mind.

Cloud is alive.

He’s _alive_.

He strolls over to Cloud’s side as casually as he can, fighting back against the urge to shed a few tears in relief. A stubborn part of him still refuses to show Cloud that he cares. Maybe it’s just wishful hoping for old antics.

But deep down, Barret knows that things will never be the same between them, at least not for himself. Cloud, whether either of them liked it or not, had established himself as an important person in Barret’s life.

“You really had me worried there, spiky.”

He surrenders to his emotions then, unable to stop himself from ruffling the soft blonde locks atop the mercenary’s head as a few manly tears fall. _Manly_.

Cloud’s eyes widen and he looks away nervously. There is no retort on his tongue, no scoff, no nothing except confusion.

Tifa frowns at his timid action, reminding her so much of that little, withdrawn boy in Nibelheim, and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. Despite the interruption, she’s not about to let his previous statement go unnoticed or overlooked. There’s a lot more to this situation than just physical recovery, and it starts right now.

“I know you don’t believe me, Cloud, and you’ve said otherwise but… You are worth it. You always have been.” She speaks gently, from the heart.

Cloud lets out a shaky breath, trying to wrap his head around her words and Barret’s tears. He was so sure that they hated him, that they thought he was a monster, or a disappointment but hearing her say this… Well, it was almost more than he could take. His eyes well up, and to his embarrassment, a tear slips down his cheek.

“Yeah,” Barret agrees, “Even if you’re a cocky little shit!”

To this, Cloud snorts and strikes his most menacing glare, watery with emotion. “Lay off me, old man.”

Barret lets out a roar of laughter and Tifa smiles at their stupid-ness.

There’s a happy feeling blossoming in Cloud’s chest. He might even go so far as to identify it as hope. And gratefulness, to have such a caring ~~support system~~ family behind him.

Because, while there’s a long road ahead to forgiving and accepting himself, that would involve dealing with his fickle memories and other baggage, maybe…

Maybe he’d be fine, after all.


End file.
